


White Lady In The Sky

by soaring_bubblegum



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, F/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaring_bubblegum/pseuds/soaring_bubblegum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shackles shattered and he was no more. She was gone. Pre-Battle in Karakura. Short chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Lady In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic I'm going to post short texts about Bleach. By the way I do not own Bleach nor any of the characters used in here unless stated otherwise.
> 
> Reviews are appreciated.

**White Lady In The Sky**

**  
**

"The one you have come to save needn't saving."

The fake, the avatar, the image. It shimmered in the air, as its broken expression wavered. It shifted. Not real. _Not real_. How had he not noticed? She wasn't, _wasn't_ here. Not that. She wasn't that. That _thing_.

The replacement misted away, leaving two figures alone in the pillar. He was feeble, that he knew. A shiver went down his spine in fear. Fear. Not a familiar feeling. Confusion, yes. Dread, yes. Fear. Not fear.

"You are left without purpose. Your journey was in vain."

Dark. It was very dark. The shackles of the horse cracked. He twitched. Rage, overbearing rage. No control left to lose. A raw scream in the night, a howl to the white lady in the sky.

"You have failed, Kurosaki Ichigo."

Something stirred in him. Help me. _Help me_. Kurosaki-kun. Yes, she used to call him. For help. A protector, that is what he was. _A failure_. The oath shivered and the shackles of the horse shattered, now brittle.

Something yelled inside him in rage. Why, he wondered. He felt nothing but hate. Unyielding hate. He tested the air, searching for her. Couldn't find _her_. Where was she? The other figure watched him uninterested, as always. He _knew_.

"Where is she?"

Closing green eyes the other figure said, "she is no more."

Horse and King melted into one and howled. She couldn't. _Couldn't_. He searched frantically for her. She must be somewhere. Where, where? _Where_.


	2. Black Lord In The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, enjoy.

 

His rage consumed him. Burning and stabbing his entrails with hate and desperation. His White Lady was no more.

He spared the fourth sword and made a run for it. No specific destination. A _hunt_ , one may call it. So he ran until his lungs protested and burned. It didn't matter.

The black man in his soul called him. _To turn back_. The white man raged with him, encouraging him to maim whatever was in sight. A shuddering breath escaped him. He bared his teeth and ripped open the sky, creating a gate towards his home. Jumping in it, he was swallowed by whirls of spiritual energy.

He clawed at them with renewed energy until they were mere shreds. The black passage stirred in protest. Snarling at the walls he projected his rage towards them, silencing them. Sensing his goal was near he tore the wall away. The passage shuddered and trembled in outrage. He ignored the calls and ripped open a gate.

Fresh air filled his lungs and light burnt his eyes. He inhaled deeply and noticed the King of Las Noches. His back towards him.

A feral grin found its way on his face.He gripped his black sword and lunged at him in blind rage. The man sidestepped and smiled pleasantly at him. He roared and launched towards him again. The King simply smiled all his attacks away. Mirth dancing in his eyes.

" _Where_ is she?"

He chuckled. The man actually chuckled. His eyes shifted towards the fox-like man. This one stepped aside, revealing a white figure floating behind him. The hair swayed gently in the air, creating a flowing halo of fire.

Choking a whine he made quick strides towards her.

" _White Lady_."


	3. Grey Earl in the Twilight

His hand reached towards _his_ moon. Whines of desperation and affection were choked down his throat finding their deaths inside his soul.

Her eyes were _empty_. Void. Two empty pools of silver.

This was not _right_. There had been warmness before. There had been smiles before. They were empty now.

_She is no more._

So he shrieked in outrage and sadness. Mask breaking into thousand pieces, revealing yellow disbelieving eyes.

His moon, so close. Yet everything had been in vain. She was gone. The black man in his soul mourned quietly while the rampaging white one _tore_ his unconscious.

Chuckles of amusement could be heard from the silver-eyed fiend of Las Noches.

The White Lady moved her hand upwards, towards him. Palm facing the skies. Whispering promises of pride, love and underlying betrayal.

_Take my revolution._


	4. Amaranth Count in the Sun

He took her hand, so small and petite and fragile, without hesitation. His eyes flickered between black and white and yellow. Somehow he still felt the black man's pleads of reason of making this _stop_.

But he couldn't, and _wouldn't_ , let his moon out of his sight again. He didn't have the strength to go through this desperation _again_ , as selfish as it was. His moon smiled at him, disgustingly fake and forced and _wrong_ , and he found that he did not care as long as she was by his side.

The silver-eyed fiend with vulpine features grinned in glee while the unseeing one shook his head at something that he did not understand. Void eyes looked at him, past him, to the infinite. He shivered in repulse and adoration.

_White Lady._

What had they done to her? She was so _empty_ , like everything that made her had just vanished into oblivion never to return. His inner white self raged at the outrage of someone tinkering around their moon's mind and soul.

Oh, he _never_ hesitated.

So he took her in his arms, child-like delight filling his heart with warmth. A relieved sigh left his lips while enclosing her. And he promptly stabbed her with his claw-like hands, mask forming on his face in twisted rage.

No, he _never_ hesitated.


End file.
